Velvet Gown,d.d2s&psig=AFQjCNGQmaQWwVe2z_gi4A9TbYRVFoF24w&ust=1416317733445025
Vultures glare from their blood stained chairs,
As she spins and twirls in her velvet gown,
Her soul for sale they do not care,
She spins and twirls in her velvet gown,
Talons grasping, their sneers leering near,
She spins and twirls in her velvet gown,
Her face crumbling they indulge in black tears,
She spins
and slips
in her velvet gown,

Scarlet juice on the walls, notes cascading like piss,
She weeps and shrieks as they burn her velvet gown.




The five senses of grief

Grief looks like the bottom of a bottle.
Grief smells like the unwashed bed linen you have not moved from in weeks.
Grief tastes sour, putrid, sickening.
Grief sounds like the music you once adored and now detest.
Grief feels like the objects you need to hold onto, to remind yourself that reality is not a concept.